


metamorphosis

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How it transpired and what shall it bring: the seduction, or else corruption of Mairon the Maia of Aulë. A beginning of sorts, to an end long written and done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	metamorphosis

He closes his eyes against the strong wind on top of the mountain he's climbed to seek solitude after another exhausting but fruitful day at the forge. This far away from the _blessed land,_ everything is different: wilder, less pronounced, but somehow... more _there_ . Snow covers the peak and he touches the cold white mass with his hot fingers. The way it melts into freezing water which heats up, sizzles and vaporizes before it can spill makes him shiver, the sensation fills him with amazement and curiosity: to feel it against skin, to be able to flinch away from what seems unpleasantly cold to this strangely receptive flesh; to have shape and to be bound to that shape, to experience the world through the limitations of a physical form. It is all relatively new and foreign to him, since Arda itself is very young; and while to some taking on a body came as natural as existing, to him it requires adjusting and learning and cataloguing _everything_ . Even this strange way of identifying himself – of assigning gender to himself – he is getting used to it now, he is getting used to being a _he_ – yet at first, it was a prison of flesh which made no sense, and the soul within felt trapped. That was then. Now, he is himself. Now, he learns more of the World.

He picks up a bigger lump of snow to feel the same thing, but this time the droplets of water fall from his fingertips just as he reopens his eyes again, and a deep sigh of wonder leaves his lips – for just before his sight, the water freezes again into transparent crystals of ice, clear and reflective, almost as though filled with light. They disappear in the snow, but Mairon stands transfixed and adoring in the midst of a Winter which flourishes with wonders instead of devouring all on its path.

And as he stands, he feels and hears a yet unfamiliar presence approach him, a mighty warmth that threatens to set the world on fire but nevertheless does not melt the snow nor does it will to do so: for that presence is Melkor, the mightiest of the Vala on Arda, the one of whom others do not freely speak: the one whose foot never stepped into the _blessed land_ , and the mountain is covered in snow and ice of his accord.

'Beautiful,' Melkor says to him. The Vala's voice is soft and melodious, and it is easy to remember the Music of Creation, that which the Maia too was a part of in the ocean of a million and one voices, and yet even then just one voice stood out above all others: and that one which stood out then was Melkor.

'Yes,' he readily admits to the Vala, but his thoughts have long since gone from the snow and ice. His gaze is drawn instead to the face of the mighty Vala, to the eyes that look back to him with fondness and interest. _These eyes_ , he hears talk sometimes, _these eyes hold no truths to them_. As he looks on, boldly, with naught a bit of shyness, he beholds the unusual lack of irises and the small dots of pupils (and oh, he is intrigued, for he always strays to see what deviates from norm and he is pleased with variety which is vain to be found in the forges of his Master), but he finds not darkness nor chaos, only wisdom of one who knows the secrets hidden from his peers and who wishes for nothing more but to share these secrets and see all benefit from him.

Nothing more is said between them on this day when the Vala and the Maia stand together and regard the frozen landscape with a similar sense of bewilderment at its eerie beauty. There is no need for words, still so strange and so foreign to beings who had never before required the limitations of language to their communication. It is enough that their minds feel each other, their spirits brush against each other in silence and share what the speech of tongues is too narrow yet to convey. In Melkor's presence, he basks freely as though soaking in the warmth and the coolness of the Vala, as though taking his essence unto himself and making it his own. In Melkor's presence, his entire being melts and is shaped anew, fuller and more, just so much _more –_ like the perfect crystals of ice made out of a shapeless lump of snow.

 

 

'He will be a cause of pain for you,' says _another_ in Master Aulë's service, one who fancies himself the Maia's kindred, his friend in the forges, with a mind warm and worried.

Not for the first time, the Maia heeds not the warning, restless and filled with the desire to work, to contribute to the great labour of shaping the World into what it has always been intended to become. But his energy has source also in another desire, one he is not very well conscious of. His thoughts return even now to that moment when his eyes opened and beheld the transformation of droplets of water into crystals of ice.

It almost felt like creation, it almost felt like making something he himself willed into being; and he cannot yet recognize the fire blazing in himself to create, to design, to make freely that which his heart may will into existence. He mistakes it still for ardent passion of following the greater will of the Creator, and so for long the idea of straying from doing the bidding of his Master Aulë does not enter his mind.

Even so, he seeks out Melkor's presence by his side as often as he dares, for only in that mighty presence does he feel completely at peace. And Melkor enjoys his presence likewise, because he has a taste for sharing his vast knowledge with an eager listener. So he teaches: how to better blend various metals into alloys which will hold mountains together and prevent their ruin with time; how to keep the forge hot for longer and how to cool off the forged product; how to capture light in steel and how to make steel lighter and stronger. How to cut crystals and how to embed them into jewellery of the highest appeal.

And the lesser spirit learns and he employs what his lessons entail into the work he does daily for his Master. Yet, innocent as it seems, _another_ worries for his friend, because the Valar do not trust Melkor nor are they very fond of him; and _another_ listens to what is being said and he finds wisdom in those words. Yet in spite of his concern, he speaks to nobody of his doubts. Maybe in this he makes a mistake, for he is still young in the ways of the Maiar and his mind is not wide enough to picture the evil outcomes of things – so good and child-like he is still in these days. And so, _another_ does not have the power to imagine the consequence of the events unveiling before his very eyes. In times to come, this will become his regret: for the mist around his mind will eventually prevent him from saving his kin.

Now, lesser in wisdom, he says only this:

'He will drive you away from our work,' and he does not truly think that, because he sees how devoted to their Master's tasks his friend is.

'He will do no such thing,' the Maia protests and smiles toothily in his eagerness to reassure _another_.

In the times since his first meeting with Melkor, his flesh has changed: his physique is more pronounced, somehow sharper, more corporeal, which results from the new-found comfort of being bound to something that perceives sensations with touch and taste and smell and sight and hearing. In a ways, his body maybe mirrors the body of Melkor, and he revels in that, and he explores it joyously when not in company of others.

What curious feelings it awakens within him! What delicious pleasures can be derived from a simple touch of fingertips on the delicately woven skin!

'Look,' he says, smiling still, filled with joy and passion. 'Look at this alloy we are forging the intricate designs of Lady Varda's necklace from. Look how the tiny swirls of silver threads perfectly embrace the diamonds, how pliant the alloy is when heated and how sturdy and tough when cooled. How perfect! It was Lord Melkor who has so graciously allowed me the use of his advice and his recipe. And this is not an exception! No, my friend. Into all works do I weave improvements shared with me by him. He wishes naught at all for what comes out of taking credit for his imaginings: all he desires is for the shaping of the world into such beauty as we all will to see.'

'Yet he would whisper secrets only to you,' _another_ reminds him, not so easily swayed in his opinion once he has become so minded.

'My ears are receptive, my heart is open to ideas. I choose to base my judgement of character on what I experience and not what others talk,' the Maia replies, his tone a gentle scolding.

 _Another,_ sufficiently embarrassed at his hasty words which have been received as slander, backs off with a soft apology. He will observe, however, from the corner of his eye, and he will see hints of a change in the other Maia that will result in things darker still. But he will do nothing. He will not understand. Not until it becomes too late.

 

 

The Maia longs for that which he does not know how to express. Before, he did not use to have dreams, yet they plague him now after days full of labour in the forges: restless visions of skin whiter than the snows in the highest mountains, of hair black like cold coal of a forge long put out, of eyes like a clean sheet of paper marred by a single droplet of ink; and of words and of melodies which all foretell his future fall from grace. He remembers nothing of those dreams once he awakens from them. His soul is still filled with a fierce yearning which only intensifies when finally he meets with Melkor after what seems to him like an eternity of having missed him.

'The real process behind creation,' says Melkor, touching a small grey stone with one elegant, long finger, 'this process is transformation. We spirits none of us possess the power of our Creator, the power to create something out of nothing. But we like to pretend so, do we not?' He asks, then looks up at the lesser spirit who feels upon him the warmth of Melkor's gaze. It is blissful to be there so accompanied by the mightiest of the Valar, watching him sit on the cool rocks and play with pebbles like they are the most interesting objects in Arda.

'Is it not so that those chosen to shape this World have been given the power of creation as well?' The Maia asks, drawing himself out of his inner thoughts in order to voice questions he wills answered. 'I myself have seen my Lord Aulë building a lamp out of nothing,' he says, daring enough to contest the Vala's words through nothing but the knowledge that Melkor values his opinion to a degree. And his daring is rewarded when a fond look again crosses Melkor's handsome face.

'As many, you have been deceived, although it is no will on your Master's part that resulted in your confusion. No, friend: think! What would you use, were you to construct such a masterpiece?' Melkor questions. He plays with the stone in his hand still, rolling it on his palm. It is just a stone, like hundreds of thousands of others, but for some reason, it has picked Melkor's interest.

The Maia wonders, briefly, if he is also this stone: one of many, nameless yet, but above them through the hallowing touch of Melkor's fingers. Oh, how he regrets this thought just a moment after, how he wishes his pride to fade away! Humbled and ashamed of himself, he looks down as he recalls words with which the Vala's question could best be answered.

'First of all, one would need a design, a purpose maybe for the lamp to exist,' he says. 'But such designs we do not have in our nature: they all come from the will of the Creator. So once a design is given, one needs to know this: should the final produce of one's labour be durable rather than intricate? Should it adorn lavish halls or should it serve as a torch in the wild and dark regions still untamed? Would the lamp be filled with the bright light of Lady Varda, or would one rather have the dimmer fire of Lord Aulë give it the feeling of warmth instead?'

'What you focus on are details of no consequence in the long run,' Melkor says, albeit not unkindly. His fingers still in their movement over the stone. His attention is fully concentrated on the Maia now. There are both ice and fire in his eyes.

'My friend,' he continues. 'In the end, a lamp is but a produce, as you yourself have said: of metal alloys, of forges, of light source, finally of the craftsman's hands. If none of its elements existed prior to the creation of the lamp, the lamp itself could not be willed into being out of nothing. Such is the nature of all things.'

'But the lamp itself did not exist before it was made into what it is,' the Maia argues. Hot he is in his tempers and passions; hotly, alas, does he defend his point once contested.

'Indeed it did not,' Melkor concedes, 'and in this is revealed the deceit before our very eyes: something which was not before, comes into being. But something else had to be sacrificed first, to make that which was not. Something had to be transformed into something else.'

The lesser spirit ponders on this, his features alight with the curiosity and brightness of his mind, open and inviting for new ideas. And this idea, he is especially receptive to: for in his heart, he has the will to lend all his power to the shaping of the World, but he has not believed himself capable of any worthy contributions to the like of his Master's work. Now, he understands.

'Can everything be thusly transformed?' He asks in wonder, marvelling at the infinite possibilities.

'There are certain limitations even to that,' Melkor explains, 'for everything has a specific potential to it. Water, for example, can become snow or ice, or rain or cloud, but it can not be metal or fire or stone, just like you could not be me and I could not be you.'

'But if that is so, how can we create the World as that which we have envisioned from the Music?' The Maia asks, fearful now, because there is so little material on Arda and even his desire to make beauty and order out of his labour will not be enough to overcome this conception of potential.

'Fear not, my friend,' Melkor says. Then,

'Observe,' and he closes his fingers around the small grey stone, effectively hiding it from the Maia's sight. When he opens his hand again, a gem rests on his palm, a rough-edged and glowing ruby which seems as though flames have been caught in ice.

The lesser spirit gasps and reaches for the gem with his own hand before he can halt this instinctual desire to hold and feel the perceived warmth of the jewel against his skin. But Melkor drops the gem and grasps his wrist with his fingers, and it is the first time they touch, and the mighty Vala's skin is different than the Maia's – rougher somehow, cooler than his own, but still warm like the closeness of fire in the middle of Winter.

And as he falls into Melkor's embrace, the Vala's lips gently align with his – and so it is the first kiss not only for them, but for the world, as never before has there been this kind of intimate contact between two separate beings. So in his will to touch the Maia and be closer with him than any before him does Melkor find what he has always desired and sought after: the realization of an idea which has not existed before in anyone's thoughts but his own.

Yet, right then, he is not aware: or else does he perceive this too as transformation of a sort, and he is not incorrect: because thought and inspiration have the needed potential to become action or object when sufficient labour is applied. Still, such dispute is not on his mind when he keeps his lips against the lesser spirit's, savouring the hot breath falling in short gasps from the Maia's mouth; and the Maia understands not the violent feelings and desires pooling in this body he holds, but he dares not shift forms, he dares not voice any of the inner turmoil he experiences for fear that Melkor may remove himself from his arms.

 _If this is torture, gladly will I endure it until the end of time,_ he tells himself and wills his body, this thing of frailty and wisps of ash, shivering and threatening to shatter into a thousand pieces, he wills it to relax, to calm and to respond to the strange caress of lips against lips. Melkor's mind, unguarded now, slides against his and the Maia sees all of the wisdom, the unbridled passion and the pure love Melkor carries within his being; in that moment, their souls seek each other out and join in a coupling that transcends everything that exists in this time and place. He is suddenly no longer a single nameless stone upon thousands and thousands, but for a brief instant he is all of them at once, and then he shifts and under Melkor's touch, he transforms: and when they separate, he is like the ruby that lays forgotten on the ground – rough at the edges, hot and fiery, and the potential he holds threatens to overflow.

'Your name,' Melkor whispers like the storm playing with his fiery hair, 'I shall tell you it as a gift, my friend: you will be henceforth Mairon, for all who look upon you will know your potential, and so they will admire you.'

And Mairon opens his eyes for the first time and they are changed. For once, the blazing fires of his forge and of his soul inhabit his eyes as well. The potential of what is to come dances upon the skin of his fingertips like a spark

He can be anything as long as Melkor is there to guide him.

 

 

'They do not understand,' says Melkor and the sadness in his voice grieves Mairon as much as the hurts the mightiest of the Vala has had to suffer.

The World is ugly and marred, for there is a war in the air and battle in the seas, and everything is drowning in chaos and revulsion. The stone and sand and rock are now covered with green, made by Lady Yavanna of the seeds she so cherishes. Creatures roam the lands, eating the fruit, laying it to waste before they die, foolish and meaningless. Mountains are raised over vast continents, then levelled again and placed in another spot, as though toys in the hands of the Valar. For what purpose is the World they claim to love thusly made to suffer?

Mairon looks to Melkor, to the mightiest of the Valar, to the only one of them who understands how this World is meant to be: and he sees that along with Arda, Melkor is also made to suffer. There is a fatigue in his eyes, a resignation of a kind – and his soul is bleeding. The Maia feels sadness overcome his joy at being in Melkor's presence: he wishes it were so that the mighty Vala never once had his heart shrouded in worry.

Yet even in the chaos and suffering, there is potential: discord breeds the possibility of order, once a mind great enough sets to work on putting everything in place. And that mind, suffering yet still mightiest of all, stands before Mairon in the darkness.

'They do not wish to understand,' Melkor goes on, cool hands running through Mairon's fiery hair as though seeking warmth in the flames. In the hospitable cool gloom of this cavern, they meet in secrecy as often as the Maia is able to come; it has been long since even muttering Melkor's name in the lands of the Valar became unwelcome and undesirable. Mairon chooses not to believe the words he hears from others: that the marring of the World comes from Melkor's malice. He knows Melkor's soul, Melkor's heart, he knows them like no other ever has tried to know this:

There is naught of malice in Melkor's entire being, just like there is no malice in a thunderstorm: Melkor is a force of nature, capable of shaping and destroying alike.

'My Lord,' Mairon calls him when they are here, alone, for this is the truth about them: the loyalty of the Maia lies with Melkor for as long as he shall exist and longer; and the words soothe Melkor, and Mairon's voice, thick and silky, calms his pains for the moment. 'My Lord, they may yet see what you have already seen. Is it not so that in all existence lies a potential to transform its ways?'

'Potential, yes,' Melkor agrees, offering a smile that the Maia has grown so fond of. 'But of potential alone, nothing shall result. It is labour, pure and ardent such as yours, that brings forth the metamorphosis from one thing to another. Tell me, my friend: if there indeed were potential in those dwelling in the far land of Almaren, why would you waste your time with me who was by them banished to this empty land that naught can tame?'

'Even that which has potential is of no import compared to the joy of your company, my Lord,' Mairon replies honestly; in the arts of deceit he has trained himself well to hide from the Valar who would frown upon his loyalty to one they scorned: but to Melkor, he cannot lie, for surely his very spirit would expire were he to commit such a grievous sin against the one he has come to cherish so.

He says this aloud and is rewarded with a laugh, soft, genuine, resounding in the darkness of the cavern like the sound of Music in the Void.

 _'_ What is a sin, if not a transgression against a moral norm set by one who is in power to rule over lesser beings?' Melkor asks later, when Mairon cannot stay any longer, when again they have to part, for even in this time before Time, long absences are easily noticed.

'Consider this, my friend: I shall not hold you to any oath, nor will I ever accuse you of betrayal should you find a different path to follow. I demand not your loyalty, for in loyalty alone dwells no potential: those who blindly seek the words of a leader shall hardly find in them the power to transform. I wish not that destiny upon you.'

 _I wish not for a destiny that is not interwoven with yours_ , Mairon wants to say but dares not do so. There are no sounds around them, silence stretches above their heads and there is much that Mairon desires from Melkor: the touch of lips on his own, only once given freely and never since repeated; and his soul longs for the closeness and for the unity of that time. But he remains silent and grateful for all tokens of what must be friendship between himself and the mightiest of the Valar, and so when he leaves to return to the forges of Aulë, to play the role he was given before time began, he carries with him naught of regret: because Melkor values him and this is enough to give him joy.

Of the labours in the forges he thinks little; the Lamps Aulë is making for Manwë are nothing of import for Melkor and so they mean nothing to him: mere trinkets he considers them, unsightly, with no purpose other than to serve as decoration. He labours in their creation, like all do, but his usual ardour and dedication are lost as he steadily pounds on the pieces of metal on the anvil with the heavy hammer which he used to handle with such glee.

'Are you sad because of _his_ evil?' _Another_ asks, and he has a name now – Curumo – and a personality and an existence all of his own, and a purpose; and potential flows within him freely like a river in the mountains, wild and untamed, and Mairon thinks how Melkor is like a mountain river himself, how he cannot be willed into submission,

_how Melkor understands the nature of the World so much better than anyone else, because the World is him and he is the World._

'I am sad because he lied,' Mairon replies, distant and lost in thought. He knows nobody suspects him to be straying from the path he is supposed to be blindly following, but he worries still: if his disapproval for what transpires within the blessed lands of the Valar becomes visible to the others, he will be questioned and his ongoing affiliation with Melkor will be discovered. The consequences for himself he would proudly bear, but he cannot stand the thought of Melkor being punished.

And so he pretends, and he deceives, and he labours in Aulë's forges, and whenever he can, he sneaks away like a wisp of smoke or a droplet of rain to report to Melkor on the going-ons and the plans that he is privy to. For Melkor, yes, Melkor knows Arda and knows what it should become.

Mairon wants naught but to see that the World is what it is in Melkor's vision.

He shall make it so, no matter what he will have to become in order for that dream of his Master's to be realized. If there is potential within him, he will transform. If for Melkor's joy he has to burn down the whole world with its creatures that are and that will be: he shall.

He will not let anything stand in the way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was terrible and i hate it and i can't believe writing this took me months


End file.
